L'Esprit de Hadrian
by Merkwurdigeliebe
Summary: AU. Slytherin Harry. Harry Potter was the quintessential Slytherin: cunning, resourceful and gifted with a natural affinity for magic that flew under even Dumbledore's radar. Alternate Universe with Neville Longbottom as the Boy Who Lived.
1. Prologue

Prologue  
**Voldemort's Choice**

The _Song-Bird Tavern_ was an establishment of well repute that stood betwixt the small boroughs of Little Velmont and Godric's Hollow. The food was good, the drinks were plentiful and the service was always outstanding.

There were other bars and taverns that had excellent food and alcohol in the area so one might be curious as to why _Song-Bird Tavern_was boasted as the best place to get inebriated at. One person made all the difference in answering such a question however, and that person's name was Sara DiMarco.

Good with the flute and the fiddle, beautiful and quite single, Sara DiMarco was what drew people to the tavern in groves. She moved crowds with drinking songs, mournful songs and uplifting songs. It was even a well known fact that the tavern was called _Song-Bird_ after her extraordinary talents and lilting voice.

So while _Walter's _and_ The Scotsman's Boot_ were as superb as any other watering hole, they didn't hold a sensation like the _Song-Bird _did.

All this really wouldn't matter too much come November 1st, as no place would hold Sara DiMarco as the attraction ever again. And to be both cruel and honest, no place had quite held her like Lord Voldemort was holding her now on the October 31st that begins this story.

"_Virianoso_," intoned the Dark Lord with a crisp voice, cutting an 'S' in the air with his wand and jabbing forward on the '_anoso_'. In front of him, a meter away, hovered Sara DiMarco; when the spell began taking effect, her eyes bulged, her skin began to bubble and her body began shaking violently.

Then he began suffocating her with another enchantment and the poor girl began clawing at her neck in futile hope of stopping whatever made breathing difficult. She screamed an unearthly scream when she realized it hopeless.

Voldemort allowed just a touch of a smile to grace his lips; thanks to precautionary measures, no sound would escape the _Song-Bird_.

The Dark Lord then began pacing around her, admiring the way her rasps and screams grew shorter and less intense with each passing moment; the way her long finger nails dug into her neck, spilling blood profusely and the way her eyes held terror and fear _for him only_.

Soon she was silent in her anguish and with another lethal spell the enchanting beauty that was Sara DiMarco fell to the ground, stained and spiritless. It was as simple as that – where the Lord Voldemort went, death and destruction followed. He had only entered fifteen minutes ago and where there was once fifty strong, rowdy and well drunken patrons, there stood only the malice that was Voldemort.

This was boring to him, of course, and paled in comparison to what would happen this evening if he had his way. Drawing back his hood and revealing an ill-built visage, the Dark Lord moved around the broken and battered bodies that littered the floors of the tavern to find a seat at the bar. Summoning without wand a bottle of alcohol he preferred, he then conjured a glass and poured.

He brought his index finger to his lips after a swallow and looked to assuage the ill temper that had made its way to the forefront of his conscious. He habitually rubbed his index finger across the bottom row of his teeth and then took his wand and tapped it against the oaken-wood bar incessantly – what sat before him was a great conflict.

_The one born with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches... Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies..._

The greatest threat to his power laid north or south of here, he had figured. In Little Velmont lived the Longbottoms, Alice, Frank and their child Neville; in Godric's Hollow, Lily, James and their Half-Blooded spawn, Harry Potter. The Dark Lord scowled. _Half-Blood_. Mudbloods and Half-Bloods. He hated all of them with the exception of himself – this caused another scowl. Tom Riddle, Sr.

Taking another swig, he rose from his seat and took in the carnage he had wrought upon the tavern. It was practice for him, one would realize, as he gazed upon the man pierced to the southern wall of the _Song-Bird_ with a pool cue through his chest.

"Practice, dear Lily," he said dauntlessly, turning over an old man. He had used a curse that ate away at the face on this one and unfortunately the man had fallen face-forward to the wooden floor. Voldemort merely wanted to check his work and seeing little skin left, he allowed himself another smile. He moved to Ms. DiMarco.

He would kill the Potters and their son, he decided, ending the debate that had tore at him ever since his greatest servant had told him the prophecy – he stepped upon DiMarco's fingers, cracking them below his heel and reveling in the sound.

He stepped back and said softly and listlessly, "Filthy Muggle." He summoned her dead form to stand before him.

Tom Riddle, Sr was handsome – anger.

Ms. DiMarco was beautiful – anger.

How could such filthy individuals be beautiful? The question tore at him. His calm demeanor broke away and he ran his serpentine tongue over the back of his teeth with fury.

Ms. DiMarco's long, clean golden hair... Merope's hair – anger.

Ms. DiMarco's perfectly fine eyes... Merope's eyes – anger.

His temper mounted and with fervor, he conjured sharp, steel instruments. He wanted to mutilate her – mutilate that filthy, Muggle face and her filthy non-magical body.

Blood that was similar to the blood that ran through him, the greatest wizard in a century, ran through this foul urchin that _dared_ to look beautiful when his mother had not.

Using his wand he commanded the knives to run across her chest, marring her voluptuous chest that no doubt had driven men crazy; he commanded sharp, steel scissors to slice open her stomach, spilling her on the _Song-Bird_ floor and with the same intensity, he commanded long ice-picks to rake her eyes out – eyes that _dared_. With a final flick of his wand he magically threw her body across the room with as much speed as he could force into it, breaking her on the eastern wall. The body once again slumped to the floor, still spiritless but now degraded, in betwixt two patrons who had been forced to eat their shot-glasses.

The anger fled him and his wild, wide, crimson eyes settled into their calmer form, if such a form could be called even that. He began contemplating this evening's greatest task again, the perverse act he had just performed flitting to the back of his mind without care.

He would have time for only one strike, he had surmised.

He could choose only one family to act upon and then after that, everything became uncertain. The Order of the Phoenix would then know what he knew. The other family could be moved. The other family could hold the true threat. It was all very uncertain and if there was to be one thing that Voldemort did not like, it was uncertainties.

He preferred a plan that was from A to Z, plotted and planned with little room for error. It was a quality bred in members of _his _house – Slytherin's house. He was overly cautious and planned many weeks and sometimes even years, ahead. That he was sitting in a filthy Muggle bar trying to figure out what he was going to do brought great fear to him.

Everything was setup. He knew the defenses of each house, thanks to the spies planted firmly next to Dumbledore; he knew how to pass all of them; he even had Peter Pettigrew, secret keeper for the Potters!

But here he was, playing politics in his mind. It was at this thought that something caught his eye. He turned fifty degrees and began pacing towards the mirror that adorned the space of wall next to the "Gents" Restroom – he made certain to smash as many fingers, as he could, along the way.

Standing before the mirror, he peered at his reflection. An abomination. The serpentine tongue ran along his teeth again. He was an abomination, clear and simple. His clammy, pasty white skin was better suited to a zombie and his serpentine nostrils were anything but enticing. People hated looking upon him, a Half-Blood, he thought. It was the Muggle in me, he defended, looking away from the mirror and instead at the broken body of Ms. DiMarco.

He looked back and thought of Albus Dumbledore. He only admitted it within the safe confines of his mind, but Albus Dumbledore was more powerful than him. Still. He hissed. All the rituals he had undertaken, the blood he had spilled and the families he had torn asunder for more power and he was still nothing in comparison to the Pureblooded, insufferable Headmaster of Hogwarts.

He hissed and turned. His mind was his greatest enemy he realized; far greater an enemy than this child of prophecy would ever be. He drew his hood up and now all that could be seen of Lord Voldemort were his unnatural, red eyes that promised retribution for the tampering of his bloodline. Stalking forward and moving between the bodies once more, he exited the tavern thirty minutes after he had entered it and stood below a great oaken-wood sign that read in bold, red letters: _Song-Bird Tavern_.

The Dark Lord Voldemort looked towards the borough of Little Velmont and then with great care towards Godric's Hollow.

One choice, he reiterated within his mind – one choice. That he was the one who could choose who would be his equal, he did not know. That he would mark him and leave a lightning-bolt scar that would identify him as a great symbol of all things good in the world, he did not know. That he would be disembodied for thirteen years, that his followers would abandon him in belief that he was truly gone and that one-seventh of his soul would be destroyed before he ever gained another body – all of these things, he did not know.

One thing he believed he did know though, was that what looked back at him from the mirror within the _Song-Bird_ was only half of what he could have been.

And with that thought in mind, he turned north and began walking towards Little Velmont.

* * *

Some elements in the HP Universe that will not be in this story:  
- Silent casting  
- Portkeys

* * *

This story will be a Slytherin!Harry Potter-centric story; Neville Longbottom will be the Boy-Who-Lived. 


	2. Chapter I

Chapter One  
**The Gardener**

**28 July 2001**

The open air, Victorian style, horse-drawn carriage made its way from Goathland to Hogsmeade upon Helmsley's path. It was an unusual mode of transportation for an equally unusual wizard.

There was no driver of the carriage, just two horses that galloped at a fair speed. The passenger, aged twenty, sat with an austere countenance; he scribbled with fervor against several pieces of parchment. One could tell he was important with how he carried himself and his attire spoke volumes of his wealth.

He wore a fine silk, violet-colored outer robe and underneath an old fashioned, elegantly tailored black inner robe that was buttoned fully; from the top of the inner robe peaked the collar of a freshly-starched purple dress shirt and from the bottom, his black slacks and snake-skin boots. Finally, upon his head there sat perfectly a black wizard's hat.

The clippity-clop-clop of the horses and the random gusts of wind never disturbed the man from his writing and much of the journey was spent quill in hand. Hours trickled by and finally the man looked up; he began tapping the front of his nose with his index finger in silent contemplation.

He was a handsome individual that was for certain. Nicely defined features, green eyes that twinkled every so lightly and neatly trimmed black hair made some women forget his severe reputation.

He sighed, leaning back in his crush velvet seat, allowing his eyes to wander from the piece of parchment in front of him to the scenery around him.

Large trees with glorious shade, various shrubs that popped up at random and lightly undulating terrain that held fields of grass and wheat that went on forever lay to the sides of him, all under a blazing sun. To the front of him, lay a long, dusty, ever winding brick path and looking in the distance, just at horizon's edge, he spotted Hogsmeade and a rather reverent looking castle.

The man allowed himself a smile and he tarried for a moment longer, released a sigh and then began to scribble with his brown, eagle-feather quill once more.

He was a busy man more often than not and as Hogsmeade grew closer and another hour trickled by, he wished he had taken another week off. He had just come back from the Province of Italy two days ago and it felt as if he had never left. The amount of letters he had received while he was gone had been twice the usual.

It was understandable, given the events that had transpired while on vacation but that didn't make the task any less taxing for the man.

He signed his name on yet another letter he had written up and additional lines of text magically added themselves. Readjusting in the seat again and allowing his left hand to slide along the mahogany railing he picked up another letter, opened it, read it and smiled – he even laughed. Picking up the quill after it had automatically replenished its ink supply, he wrote several lines, added his name and re-read it as the three lines that always followed his signature blazed onto the parchment.

_Lucius,_

_I chuckle heartily as I write you; your fears  
were not unfounded but I have successfully  
bartered your case and have had little trouble  
pushing it through the 'quagmire' and to the  
ears of those who truly matter._

_You will be happy to know that I have succeeded.  
What you want to pay me will be unnecessary  
of course, though I imagine you hold some  
semblance of hope that I will one day accept  
such trivial things. I kid._

_As to the other matter – six o'clock would be  
adequate._

_I have the honour to be,_

_**Hadrian J. Potter**_  
_Lord Potter  
Keeper of the Seal  
Order of Merlin, 2nd Class_

Getting to his name once more, the man stopped.

Why he stopped, he wasn't too sure of. Perhaps it was because the letter was to be sent to one Lucius Malfoy. Or perhaps it was because the name just sparked inconveniences on July 28th, a day that was forever an issue. If it was either, it did not matter in the grand scheme of things – he stopped and he stared at the name 'Hadrian' for a moment and that was all that mattered.

Hadrian wasn't truly his first name.

In fact, his real first name was Harry.

_Harry James Potter_.

It had been a name his mother had chosen upon his birth and to be perfectly honest, he had found it rather plain. It was boring he'd agreed and if he was to divulge all he felt about it, he would admit he thought the name almost _filthy_.

Almost.

It was water under a bridge however, he told himself.

He sighed.

Only a scant few now lived that knew the truth behind his name. Among them, even less dared to talk about it unless with loved ones and even in that instance, hardly any trusted what they confided could be kept from the ears of Legilimencers.

There were those who were bold however, and had the type of daring that could get you sorted into Gryffindor. They tried their hand at conspiracies; they made connections where few saw them and when they looked upon the evidence that told of his birth name, they caught the pieces that did not add up.

When they finally filled in all the holes, stood back and took in the whole picture, they saw a completely different Lord Potter. A Lord Potter that made their eyes widen in shock. It undoubtedly made them angry; angry enough to perhaps say something.

They knew it would be in vain, however.

Such theories would never be taken serious if they were brought to the attention of the public. If anything, they'd be ridiculed. And of the person who dared to speak ill of the 19th Lord Potter?

They would find themselves carted off to the Transylvanian Province for High Treason.

It was Lord Potter after all. Popular. Trustworthy. In their eyes: _Perfect_.

Everyone that truly mattered nowadays backed him and trusted him implicility. It was a rarity in such a society as this one and few who knew him would allow such a besmirching of his reputation. He was invincible.

And that was all that _truly mattered_, Hadrian reasoned.

He was nonetheless anxious.

He allowed himself to take in the rolling fields again; the clippity-clop clopping of the horses and the tall grass that swayed eastwardly with the wind. Hogsmeade was growing closer and if he focused, he could see the light stacks of smoke rolling out of several chimneys in the distance.

He sighed.

Hadrian James Potter was a Pureblood; Harry James Potter was not. He coughed and looked ahead for just a moment longer and then let his eyes focus back down upon his neat, elegant script. Thinking about the confusion such a conundrum caused led the man down memory lane and such a place was the only one other than the Isle of Man that Harry did not want to visit.

Pushing thoughts that brought sadness aside, Hadrian retrieved an envelope from a brown satchel at his feet. Taking one last look at the letter, he folded it precisely as letters were meant to be folded and carefully stuck it in the envelope. Withdrawing his wand from one of the many pockets that lined the inside of his outer robe, he tapped the front of the envelope directly in the middle. Instantly, letters began to appear in the area where his wand had touched.

_Lucius, Lord Malfoy  
Number 2 Merlin Way  
Hogsmeade, Scotland_

Satisfied, he placed the letter on the seat and retrieved a rather odd looking Iceland Gull from its cage in the luggage area in back. It was no owl obviously but was just as reliable at transporting mail, if not more so – and Hadrian, while proper, was still quite eccentric enough to own a seagull as a pet.

"Come, Syaoran," Hadrian called and he tied the letter to the seagull's left leg; "Deliver this to Lucius quickly; head to the manor after that," he commanded, releasing the bird. It hopped up, released a scream and took off.

With that done, he resumed answering letters until...

"The Keeper of the Seal arrives!" shouted a Pureblood, jerking Hadrian's attention from an interesting letter that questioned the ethics of the 2nd Duke of Sussex. Putting the letter away for later reading and response, Hadrian smiled and began returning greetings to the various wizards and witches who welcomed him.

"Welcome back, Milord," greeted a rather stern looking witch.

"Thank you Missus Cornfoot; it's good to be back."

"Milord," said another with a bow and a tip of the hat.

"And you, Mister Alerion," Hadrian replied with a tip of his own hat; the man smiled graciously.

The horse-drawn carriage made its way to the outskirts of the town and soon found itself in front of a pristine, white manor that was built into the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. Happy to have arrived, Hadrian exited the transport.

Looking around and taking in the sight of one of his favorite homes, the young man called out. "Babbins," he shouted; a house-elf appeared immediately and a rather odd looking House-Elf at that.

"Yesses, Mishta Lord Sir," the creature inquired.

"Would you take everything that's in the carriage inside, Babbins?"

"Okie-dokies, Mishta Lord Sir," said the strange House-Elf obediently; at once, the House-Elf popped up and into the carriage; the creature then grabbed as much as he could before teleporting into the manor, putting everything where his Master wanted it. He repeated the process several times, every once in awhile running into the carriage on accident and knocking his head rather loudly on to the railing. He didn't stop however, until everything from the transport was inside.

Hadrian was amused but he did not show it; instead, he turned and looked out across the lake that his manor resided near. Babbins was a good friend as far as Hadrian was concerned and it would surprise everyone to know he felt deeply sorry for the creature. He believed cruelty was the last thing the House-Elf needed to be burdened with.

The House-Elf teleported behind him with a large crack that would scare most and in a sing song voice Babbins, said, "Ishtar anything else you be needing Mishta Lord Sir?"

Hadrian however, did not answer; he was too busy being entranced by the beauty of Hogwarts.

He loved Hogwarts immensely. Everything about the castle was magnificent – the turrets, the sweeping towers, the bridges, the Gothic arches and Roman Briton influences – even the haphazard stairways that switched randomly, he could not find fault with. He had loved the magic as well – the classes and the teachers and while he was certainly not the socialite that he was now, he had enjoyed the people and the experiences.

He loved it so much that he had once desired to teach there and if he wasn't so afraid of himself, he'd admit he still desired it.

Desires like that seemed so easy to fulfill back then though.

He scoffed; he had been naïve then. A man of his position in life now would not be looked upon with the same esteem if he _lowered_ himself to just _teach_. And so he never mentioned it – not to anyone. But there had been one who knew, nonetheless.

Hadrian's eyes flitted to where the Headmaster's Office was.

Discarding that thought in a particularly vicious fashion, he scanned the area around the lake on the opposing shore. The Slytherin Common Room, the Slytherin Dormitories and the dungeons were in that area, right near the lake; it made for very cold winters and perfect summers.

Hadrian knew this because he had been in Slytherin House for six years; his eyes flitted to the Headmaster's Office again, quickly and he swallowed. His parents had been most disappointed in the beginning but they accepted him and who he truly was with time; at least his mother did, Hadrian told himself. He believed father had only done it because mother demanded it.

That was water under a bridge though, Hadrian silently preached to himself.

July 28th was such a ruinous day.

Trying once more to push the various memories away, he saw some light in the situation; he believed he was getting better at suppressing them. Soon, he imagined, the instances would never occur.

He was lying to himself.

"Mishta Lord Sir?"

The House-Elf snapped him out of his reverie and Hadrian began smiling once more; he then asked: "Did Syaoran find his way back then, Babbins?" The House-Elf nodded eagerly, "And where are Othniel and Samuel," he inquired.

As if to answer him, a large scream pierced the placid atmosphere: "_Hadrian!_" And not a moment later, a young boy aged eleven had his arms wrapped around Hadrian.

"Samuel," laughed Hadrian, hugging his brother back fiercely. Immediately the young boy began talking a mile a minute about anything and everything; Hadrian could only chuckle. His brothers Samuel and Othniel meant the world to him; he would listen to them talk his ear off for the rest of time, if only to show how much he cared.

After several minutes of gushing about Quidditch, Hogwarts and all the stupid girls who lived in Hogsmeade, Hadrian finally got a word in edgewise: "That's all very wonderful, Samuel but where is Othniel," he asked.

"Right here, Hadrian," answered a seventeen year old boy from the doorway of the manor; Hadrian looked up.

Othniel Benjamin Potter had the more effeminate looks of the three brothers - softly tousled dark brown hair, blue eyes, soft cheeks and a delicate jaw and chin all made him the lady killer of the family.

It also belied his volatile nature.

"I saw your carriage pass at the Three Broom Sticks," he continued, dusting soot off his gentlemanly attire, "I flooed over immediately."

He then walked forward briskly, hugged Hadrian briefly and gave quick greeting. He didn't give Hadrian a chance to say anything in return, however and turned and walked back into the manor, looking over his shoulder only for a moment to tell him that several boxes had arrived from the Hogsmeade Post Office in the past week.

Hadrian only nodded.

Once Othniel had shut the door, the young boy began in earnest once more.

Samuel was much different than Othniel that was for sure. Sometimes Othniel couldn't bear to be in the same room as Hadrian; for Samuel, his least favorite times were when Hadrian wasn't around. He tried to understand the dynamics of the situation but failed miserably each time he attempted.

The two began a small walk towards the lake after asking Babbins to make lunch. Samuel began telling Hadrian of the adventures he had undertaken while he was gone but Hadrian listened only half-heartedly. He was instead focused on his other brother's attitude towards him.

Othniel was of age now and had always been fiercely independent and an ardent support of his true parents cause.

_The Order of the Phoenix_.

Horrible, awful memories flooded him and Hadrian suppressed them with difficulty.

It did not matter, he told himself. Othniel submitted to Hadrian; both brothers did.

After their parents' death, it was Hadrian who had pulled them through the darkest of times; it was Hadrian who had made certain everything turned out alright.

And while Othniel was begrudged to allow it at the time, that lack of faith in Hadrian's abilities passed and soon enough, he harbored enough respect to allow Hadrian to continue calling the shots.

It didn't mean the brother was any less vocal about everything and anything he felt strongly about. Hadrian wondered at times why the boy wasn't in Gryffindor instead of Ravenclaw. He was a sharp kid, for sure but his callous, loud shouting matches reminded him too strongly of their father and that dunderhead Neville Longbottom, the Boy-Who-Lived.

Despite that, Hadrian entertained both the criticism and the scorn from Othniel; both the insults and the unusual dismissals. Hadrian was constantly hurt by Othniel's feelings toward him but he remained strong.

Strong for both his brothers.

Hadrian shut his eyes for a moment, letting Samuel's words wash over him; he opened them again and looked up at Hogwarts, once more towards where the Headmaster's Office was located.

He swallowed very hard.

July 28th made Othniel's disdain for his laissez-faire attitude towards the problems in the world hard to get past. But he would have to, like he always had. For them. He loved them and that was how it was to be if they were to survive in such a society as the one Hadrian played a game with.

Babbins popped in, saving him from another trip down memory lane and informed him that lunch was ready. Leading Samuel back towards the manor, Hadrian dismissed the thoughts entirely.

He opened the door for his young brother and soon followed therein.

The entrance chamber's comfort had immediate effects on the young lord. It served to relieve the tension that had plagued him all day. The various shades of brown, orange and of tan all soothed him and reminded him of autumn, a sadder time for those who worked soil but a necessary one.

His eyes skirted to a corner of the room where many scratching noises emanated from; a large piece of parchment sat upon a table and a quill scratched furiously upon the document. A news quill – valuable item for certain, if one could be bothered to sift through everything that was irrelevant. His eyes drifted to the other side where voices spoke over one another – various paintings and statuettes raged over all that was wrong with the world.

Hadrian smiled.

Samuel took off towards the dining room as fast as he could and Hadrian followed his route, only at his own leisurely pace. He strolled through the white hallway, taking time to look at the obsidian statues that lined the path and the valuable paintings that adorned the walls on either side. It was as he rounded the first bend that the soft pitter-pattering of liquid reached his ears. Here, Hadrian smiled once more; Othniel was undoubtedly brewing potions again.

He finally reached the wonderfully long dining room and was soon sharing an exquisite meal with his two most favorite people in the world. He told them of his plans to take them to London in the morning and to help them purchase school items. Hoping to excite them, he then quickly transitioned into telling them of his vacation in the Province of Italy.

Samuel was excited about everything Hadrian spoke of; Othniel was indifferent.

That was how it always was and how it would always be.

As lunch wrapped up, Hadrian left the dining room and soon found himself in the green house, unpacking boxes of glorious plants he had purchased in the Italy Province. It was as he pulled the _Vespertinius Mallificus _plant out of its packaging that he realized not all things were bad about July 28th and Othniel's indifference towards him.

He had long ago realized he would suffer any insult so long as his brace of kinsman remained safe – he had been saving them for years now and even if Samuel had never loved him back, it was alright. What mattered was that he got to spend time with them and to enjoy the company of the only people he cared for.

As he stepped outside, behind the house and into the outskirts of the Forbidden Forest, he realized he was home. He would have to deal with the past soon or later, but for the time being, he was home and that was enough to get through July 28th.

And so he gardened.

* * *

**Author Note:** I must caution you it'll be a bit slow up until chapter three as it is an AU story. Besides that, I hate jumping into it without setting it up properly. I hope you enjoy. 


End file.
